it's the beat
by mimarin
Summary: Matt has excellent timing. A series of MxM sins.
1. Chapter 1

The sound system is the only thing working in this shit vehicle, so Matt cranks up the volume to brain-bleed.

The radio reception in this stretch of L.A. highway cracks and shivers. The static warps the music, mutating the electronic beats into something sinister.

_I'm a hustler baby — That's-what-my-daddy's-made-me — _

"Seriously, Matt, you listen to the gayest stuff." Mello slouches into the dirty beige seat, hoisting his right foot onto the dashboard. The blond's body betrays him, though; his torso subtly undulates to the static-snarled rhythm, and his lower stomach gleams in the indifferent sunlight. "Fuck, when does this song _end_?"

"Four minutes, about." Fixing his gaze on the road, Matt leans over with his right arm and smirks when his fingers brush taut leather.

The music drowns out Mello's gasp, but Matt can feel it, just the same. "What are you — oh"

Multi-tasking has always been Matt's forte. He steers and rubs and teases, humming all the while.

Mello comes by the last verse.


	2. Breaking and Entering

Despite Mello's expertise in all flavors of sabotage and espionage, breaking in the apartment was proving harder than expected.

Upon the third attempt, Matt shook his head. "You're fumbling with that lockpick like a virgin on prom night."

Mello whipped around to glare death at his companion in the grimy hallway. "Well, _Matt_," he hissed, "Care to demonstrate your fine-honed skills of burglary?"

Matt just smiled, feral, before pouncing. Fury and delight lanced down Mello's spine as his shoulder-blades cracked against the wall and the taste of glove leather filled his mouth. Even as he thrashed to free his pinned arms, he parted his thighs.

"It's easy," Matt whispered against scarred flesh, rubbing groin to hip. "First, I break you, then I enter you."


	3. Player Kings

"Embrace me Gaveston, as I do thee."

Mello leaped on the bed and swept out his arms with royal elan, scattering crumpled binder paper to the hardwood floor. Across the room, Matt sat cross-legged with his back to the door, holding the script in his lap.

"Why should'st thou kneel?" The blond continued, eyes dreamy. "Not Hylas was more mourned than Hercules, than thou hast been of me since thy exile."

"And since I went from hence, no soul in hell" — Matt paused to take another bite out of his apple — "Hath felt more torment than poor Gaveston." The seated boy snorted at the last line, ignoring the glare of his companion. "Mello, I realize that you're a homo, but this play sucks melted balls. Why didn't you pick something from Shakespeare?"

"_Shakespeare_." Mello sneered and flopped backwards on the bed. "That's all anybody knows. _Shakespeare_."

Matt shrugged, looking out the open window. Several kids were playing football outside, and he briefly contemplated joining. "Shakespeare is… you know. Elegant. Like _Richard II_."

"What the fuck about Richard II?" Mello was now lying on his stomach, propping his elbows against the edge of the bed.

"It's the same thing — poofter king, bad rule, usurpation. It's just done better." Matt chewed his lip, letting the apple core fall from his hand. "Shakespeare will always be better."

A pillow sailed across the room and struck the door above Matt's head, followed by an array of small-density, high-velocity objects. "Fuck you Marlowe's fucking awesome get out" was the last thing Matt heard as he scrambled into the safety of the hallway.

Matt remembers there was much huffing at dinner that night, and L had to step in as the arbiter of taste, explaining that Marlowe was more interested in analyzing social systems, the willful elevation of birth status, than in psychology.

"_Richard II _is quite moving, actually," the detective said, lancing a strawberry in half with his fork. "Richard is so fixated with the gap between what he is and what he should be that he shatters, beautifully."

_What he is and what he should be_. The words wriggle and wrap tight around his skin, dissolving into his flesh prickled by the hotel's overblown air-conditioning. Above him, Mello stands at the foot of the bed, cock-warm and hungry.

"Embrace me, Gaveston," Mello whispers as he kneels, and Matt lifts his head to kiss his king.


	4. Right Hand Man

"When you become L, what will happen to me?"

He's damn lucky they're both past drunk and post-coital, because sober Mello would have kicked him, then kicked him out. A ridiculous question. _When you become L_. As if there was any tattered mantle left to assume. As if he didn't know this was a one-way trip to forevernever the moment he flipped open his phone at 4 p.m. on a limp workday, and _that voice_ transfigured him into platinum flame (with this ring, I do thee wed).

Mello lolls on the floor and idly reaches into the pocket of Matt's discarded pants, pulling out a cigarette on the third try. It's fucking hot, they'll be stuck to the goddamn carpet at this rate, and Matt really needs to take a piss, but he lies still, watching. The blond licks the sweat off his upper lip and sticks the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

"What d'you mean?"

Matt reflexively shrugs, his raw shoulders scraping against dirty, itchy carpet. His head feels too heavy for his neck, like maybe it'll snap off if he gets up too quickly.

"Would I be like Watari? Lugging around a laptop with a hugeass 'M' on it? And I'll have to wear suits all the time and you'll stick your hand up my ass and I'll flap around and that freaky synthesized voice will come out?"

The cigarette jerks up and down as Mello laughs. "Jesus, Matt," and the dismissive tone garrotes him.

"Fuck you. Forget it," he says, turning his face away. The couch is within sprawling distance; if he can just get enough momentum, he'll be able to hoist himself up.

Instead, Mello rolls over and straddles him.

"You won't get clothes." The blond takes a fake drag from the cigarette and digs his fingernail down Matt's chest, skimming the right nipple. "No one will ever see your face. And," — he leans closer — "the only 'M' you'll carry will be the one I pound in your ass, you little slut."

Despite himself, Matt grins and hardens, and he's thirteen and certain again. "So, I'm your right-hand man."

Mello scoffs as he slides the bent cigarette in Matt's mouth. "You're just _mine_."


	5. Closet Needs

Matt likes going to the drugstore at this time, when it's so late it's early, when the cashiers are gaunt-eyed and the birds are just starting to chirp in darkness outside and the aisles stretch out long and lovely in their emptiness. The jaundiced 24-7 fluorescent lights are just bright enough to balance out the haze of his goggle lens, so that for a while, he sees the world as it is. Sort of.

The last time he dropped by this store in particular, it had been 4:50 a.m. as well — a mission for three-pack Belgian dark chocolate bars in lilac foil. Matt had returned to Mello with three-pack Belgian dark chocolate bars in silver foil, along with a box of sixteen extra-strength scented pads. With wings.

(Incidentally, he spent the rest of the night/morning clutching a pad to his bloody nose. The damn things were really quite absorbent.)

The shopping cart wheels squeak underneath his feet as he glides through the aisles, picking up the usual items: 10 frozen beef-and-something dinners for the price of 7, six-pack of dark ale, two-ply toilet paper, duct tape, lemonade, water, and a set of plain white T-shirts to replace the ones Mello ruined. After some thought, he skates to the First Aid section, tossing in 200 centimeters gauze and 500 milliliters hydrogen peroxide. The checkout counter is within sight when Matt remembers they've been out of shampoo for three days (for a former street rat, Mello was surprisingly fastidious about personal hygiene).

Gnawing his lip, the gamer scans the variegated offerings of the Hair Care section. The rows upon rows of jewel tones in cheap plastic all promise better volume, frizz control, rich lather, instant shine, curl protection, bigger tits.

A white logo in the corner catches his eye, and he pulls the black container from the upper shelf. This bottle is a bulbous metallic shape, the kind reserved for expensive cars and sex toys. Matt reads the label — "salon-approved, professional shampoo" — and then the price tag. Shit.

He stands in the aisle for a full minute, holding the shampoo bottle like some holy relic. Matt opens the cap, takes a sniff, stops, sniffs again.

_What the hell_, he thinks. _I can sleep shirtless. _

He reaches the apartment door at the same time as Mello. The older boy's hands are shoved into his pockets, and he slumps against the doorway when they walk in.

They leave the light off. In the dimness, Mello's voice is quiet, crumpled. "You were asleep when I left."

Matt shrugs and hands him the plastic bag. Mello disappears into the bathroom, and the brunet flops on the unmade bed, boots off, listening to the sound of water running. After ten minutes, the bathroom door swings open. Mello walks over to the bed, leaving wet footprints. His right hand is swathed in gauze.

"I thought you were going to get new shirts this time," he says as he sinks onto the bed, his back to Matt. His hair is dripping all over the place; he'll have a cold in the morning.

Matt kicks off his jeans and pulls the thin covers over the both of them. "Yeah, well." The sun is rising behind the bent blinds.

"You know I would've woken you," Mello mumbles under the sheets. "If I had any doubt, I would've woken you up."

"Okay," Matt whispers, tracing lines down Mello's slick, bare back. He waits for the other boy's breathing to deepen, and then he nestles his head in the curve of Mello's neck and inhales, scent of mango and orange blossom, and he wants to say it, wants to scream it, but he's a coward and a fatalist and Mello is asleep. So he opens his mouth and sucks on a strand of wet blond hair, his tongue and nose and heart throbbing _please, please, just let me keep this moment_.


	6. Blackout

Matt's drunk and thirteen again.

The first three shots of Johnny Walker gave him the courage to order the mango mojito he really wanted, and from there on he lurched from White Russian to Black Russian to sangria until tingly bits of mint, peach, and cream melded between his teeth and Mello pulled him up from the floor, the lilac-haired waitress in the background tsk-tsking with her lip ring.

Mello pushes him in the car and Matt unfurls on the backseat, head propped against the wooden door panel. Their latest acquisition is a convertible, and Mello leaves the roof down as he tears through the dark streets. Gazing up at the moon, Matt swipes his tongue along his bottom lip and tastes a little bit of chocolate martini (between cocktails he had leaned across the sticky table to suck on Mello's fingers). The rumble of the engine is so soothing he wants to close his eyes, but then he'd miss the stars.

"Hey," he croaks softly, "remember when." But Mello keeps on driving, gold hair fluttering in the breeze.

* * *

Mello promised him a surprise, a really fucking great surprise, so Matt feels almost disappointed when the handcuffs click neatly around his left wrist and the iron bedpost, until he remembers that this is Mello, and Mello does amazing things with cocks.

There's a giggle, and it's coming from him, because Mello's bangs tickle against his chest. Mello straddles his waist and tells him to count to ten eyes closed, and by the time Matt slurs out twen-ty and lifts his eyelids, in walks the past.

"M-Mel?" And Matt _sounds_ thirteen now, voice splintering into a prepubescent whine because there's Mello from Wammy's, young and blithe and smiling with sharp teeth.

"Hey, Matty." This Mello strides and jumps on the bed, no snarl no swagger, just a coltish pounce that Matt remembers from rainy Sunday rugby games. He wants to run his hands, his tongue, his cock all over the boy's pink, smooth skin — making up for lost time, all the times he shut his eyes when they were changing, all the times he grinded his hips against the mattress to the rhythm of the soft breathing across the room.

"Call me by my real name," he whispers into Mello's mouth.

"What's wrong with 'Matt'?" the boy laughs. His lips are so pliant.

"My real name," Matt insists. "I want you to say it." He grabs the blonde's wrist with his free hand. "Say it."

The slight hesitation in the boy's eyes is enough to send a jolt through Matt. A jolt, then clammy, heavy recognition. "You aren't Mello."

The boy scrambles off the bed, zipping up his pants in defeat. "I'm sorry, I thought you knew—"

Matt shuts his eyes and screams for Mello.

* * *

"Your _real name_? Do you want to _die? _What the fuck is wrong with you?" Mello screeches, pacing around the room. Matt grits his teeth and thrashes against the bedposts. The asshole was smart to handcuff Matt in the first place, or else he'd be spurting blood from his lying fucking face.

"What the fuck is wrong with _you_? Christ, how old was that kid? Fourteen?"

"Of course he was fourteen," Mello snaps, hands on hips. "I pride myself on being accurate."

Matt trembles, presses his face against his left shoulder. His left arm is completely numb. "Fourteen, Mello. Jesus."

"Oh, so after all the real shit we've been through, now you're worried about a statutory rape charge." Mello's laughter is brittle in the dim light. "May I remind you that I did that exact same shit several years ago? He's not a kid, he's a pro. A rather _expensive_ but _enjoyable _pro, or at least he _would have been _if you hadn't freaked the fuck out and ruined the surprise, you fucking cunt!"

"Is that what you think I want?" Matt's voice is veering into high-pitched territory. "Some underage street rat sucking me off while you listen at the door?"

Mello stomps over to the bed and leans in, gripping Matt by the chin. "Listen, asshole." He places Matt's free hand on the scar tissue scrawled down his face. "You know what this feels like."

Matt strokes the burned flesh, feeling the familiar grooves underneath his fingertips. "Yeah. It's a part of you."

His leather-bound companion stiffens. "Well, I wish it weren't. I knew you liked me at Wammy's, and I never said anything. All those johns —" he looks down at nothing, refusing to meet Matt's gaze — "They had me when I was… before. And you never got the chance."

Now there's an ache all over Matt's body, and he wishes he could just be numb and forgo this incoherent, surging fierceness in his limbs and organs and bones. "You're so stupid, Mello," he murmurs. "Unlock me."

Mello laughs, still brittle, and pulls out the key from his back pocket. Within seconds, the handcuffs thud against the floor. Rubbing his left wrist, Matt wriggles over to the right to make room.

"Night, Matty." Under the covers, Mello turns to trace a pattern down Matt's left cheek, down his neck and his left pec, until the redhead falls asleep.

Matt doesn't remember the conversation in the morning.


	7. Cheap Date

Mail scooted forward in the hard diner seat, elbows balanced delicately on the edge of the greasy tabletop. Usually she gave fuck all about crinkles or stains, but the suit was rented and she couldn't afford to pay extra for damages, not when she was saving up for a decent ride, one that could hit 90 mph on the highway without trembling. She touched a fingertip to the hint of light pink fabric peeking above the jacket cuff. The pink was all wrong for her coloring, apparently, but Mail had insisted on a pastel-colored shirt, to prove that she wasn't a _complete _dyke, Mel. Her best friend had simply scoffed at the tux store and grinned savagely at the Filipino saleswoman. "Don't you think she'd look fucking hot in just the blazer, with no shirt on? Very 1966, le smoking, right?" Making a swiping gesture with his finger, drawing the lower swell of breasts. How the petite, long-faced saleswoman, probably twice their age with kiddies running around at home, had giggled at Mello's unique brand of erudite assholery.

Her thoughts halted as Mello plunked down their order of two King's Noodles, size Large, extra spicy. Even at 11:00 p.m., he managed to look immaculate, from the purple gloss of the handkerchief tucked in his jacket pocket (purple, to match his date's dress) to the hard glitter of his Gestapo boots. His hair was tied back in a low ponytail, for once, and Mail had yet to decide whether it was attractive.

"How much do I owe you?" Mail stuck a hand in the shredded messenger bag behind her and pulled out her wallet.

Mello shrugged. "Whatever."

"Easy there, tiger." Mail set the wallet on the table, between their two bowls. "I'm not your _date_, you don't have to impress me."

"Don't be such a cunt." Mello raised his eyes to the fluorescent-paneled ceiling, and the simple fact that he _wasn't _glowering at her, couldn't look at her eyes, was enough to make Mail give in, tuck the striped wallet back into her bag.

"You sure Halle won't be upset?" Mail said quietly, rubbing two plastic green chopsticks with a translucent napkin and placing the cleaned chopsticks on Mello's bowl. "Seeing as you ditched her and all." Halle — statuesque, sarcastic Halle — seemed like the type who'd demand flowers-dinner-prom-hotel. Not nag or wheedle: _demand, _like Mello demanded, blithely expectant, like one would dive into water with the anticipation of _blue_ and _wet_. The two of them had looked good together, Halle in her purple gown touching Mello's arm, Mello smirking winding his arm around her waist, so confident that Mail had to bite her lip and turn to Rester to argue the merits of FFVIII versus FFX, because no-one ever played FFIX.

"Nah, Halle's cool." Mello waited for Mail to finish cleaning her own chopsticks before starting in on his meal. "Her real boyfriend is some thirty-year-old podiatrist or proctologist or something who doesn't want to come off as a pedo in public."

"Huh. I guess she can pull it off," Mail swallowed, suddenly careful. "Lady in the streets…" She idly nudged Mello's foot with a red canvas sneaker. Mail wasn't smart the way that girls are supposed to be — neat handwriting, fervid studying, hand-raising straightened-hair pleated-skirt genius like Halle and Naomi and Takada on her better days. Mail wasn't dumb the way girls are supposed to be, either — simpering squealing beguiling nail-filing lip-lubricating like Misa and Wedy and Takada on her worse days.

Mail ran a hand over her hair; she had dumbly slapped it back with mousse that afternoon, but at this hour tiny strands were starting to sprick out. Mello's hair, flat and shiny as usual, remained snugly consecrated in its ponytail. Biting into her extra-spicy peanut noodles, Mail wondered what Halle would have preferred, in her powdered hotel room. Letting the dress slink to the floor, rubbing her nipples, settling into Mello's arms with a sigh. How hard Mello would be, his hands fisting her gauzy white panties, how flushed his face would be, how long and white his exposed neck would be, how grateful Halle's teeth and tongue and lips would be.

No, Mail wasn't girl-stupid. Just regular stupid.

"So. How did wonder boy treat you?" Mello sneered, and in her interrupted shame Mail took the bait.

"Near was the perfect gentleman, really." She raised her chin and swallowed. "I changed my mind about the guy."

"Really." Mello reached over, natural-like, and touched a fingertip to Mail's cheekbone. "End of the dance, did he kiss you here?" He dragged his finger lightly down her cheek, to the corner of her mouth. "Or right here?" He tapped his fingertip against the center of Mail's lower lip. "Or did he hit the spot?"

Mail pulled back, smiling hard to ignore the tingling in her lips. "Why, I'm touched by your concern for my virtue."

"What virtue?" Mello drawled, and underneath their postage stamp of a tabletop, she felt his legs jostling hers, angry, insistent. They were the only two patrons in this side of the diner, tucked away in the corner.

"I was planning on being nice, tonight, on account of your darling Lawliet essentially sucking Light Yagami's cock at prom, in front of God and everyone." Mail raised her voice. "All those little touches, like the neck grab on the dance floor? Misa looked like she was going to shit herself right there."

"Mail." She was in so much trouble now, it was fucking amazing. The redhead continued, feverish, venomous: "L's a logical guy, if he's going to ruin his entire goddamn teaching career it might as well be for the hottest, brightest, tightest piece of ass in the academy. Meaning, not you. And while you and Halle were busy sucking down vodka and chocolate milk from that super-gay monogrammed flask of yours, Near and I were on the balcony, and I can't even _show _you where he kissed me."

And with that, Mail Jeevas slid out of the booth, bag in hand, and sauntered out the restaurant. She made it to her car, on the far side of the parking lot, when Mello whipped her around by the shoulder and kissed her, bulls-eye.

Her bag whumped to the ground. Mail reared back. Mello grabbed her wrists. He kissed her again. She couldn't taste anything in it, just wetness and pressure. He pushed her against the side of the car. She kicked him in the shin, more scuff than actual kick.

He was panting, soft spicy puffs of air against her open mouth. "You're going to show me. Where he kissed you."

Her car was filthy; her suit was ruined. Back still pressed against the driver door, Mail wrenched her left hand from Mello's grip, and coolly unzipped her pants, easing them down her thighs. She couldn't see his face. She guided his hand—was it shaking?—into the waistband of her panties. "Right there," she breathed.

Mello surged forward with a groan, and crushed his face against the curve of her neck. Right-hand fingers pumping. "And this is Near's saliva, right?" he hissed. "This is why you're so wet, right?"

"Y-yes," Mail shut her eyes and angled her hips toward her best friend, her very best friend. The backs of her bare thighs crushed against grime and calcified bird shit on metal and her free hand fisted in Mello's hair. Pulled his face to hers and lapped his cheek as she came.

Afterward, Mello slumped in the passenger seat, eyes down: "I'm sorry, Mail."

Mail, tossing her dirtied rented trousers and jacket in the back, sitting bare-assed: "What?" She dipped her head to the steering wheel, bumping her sweaty forehead against faux leather.

" 'm glad you're going away after graduation. You deserve better than anybody here."

At this, Mail laughed like sandpaper cracking. She stuck the keys in the ignition. Above the wheezing of the engine, she might have heard Mello say something more, but then the car was revving with the radio switched on and the highway entrance was greeting them and by then it was gone, gone, gone.


End file.
